


Better Than a Lifetime Alone

by Severina



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Community: tv-universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 22:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5983183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Rumplestiltskin hears the name 'Emma', the memories come flooding back -- including the lost memories of the love of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than a Lifetime Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Post Episode 101. Written for LJ's tv_universe for their 'One Song' prompt. My inspiration was Queen's "One Year of Love".
> 
> * * *

_Emma Swan._

Rumplestiltskin pauses on the stone steps outside Granny's, closes his eyes and breathes deeply of the crisp autumn air as the first of the memories comes rushing back.

_What is her name?_ His own voice, high-pitched, terrible, terrifying. Fingers tipped with black talons crushing the bars, as though he could shake the answer from them. Snow White pausing and fulfilling her bargain, despite her Charming's fruitless attempts to hustle her away. _Tell me her name!_

Emma. The Saviour. 

The wind pushes as the fallen leaves on the stoop, rattles a broken flower pot. Inside, the widow will be concluding her business with her new tenant; will look outside and wonder why he is still standing on her step, her roll of cash still clenched tightly in his fist. He opens his eyes to a world of sudden wonderment, and after a moment he is finally able to move.

He leaves his car parked at the curb and walks home, and everywhere he sees the duality of _what should be_ versus _what is_. Smooth pavement where there should be rutted dirt roads; cars where there should be horse drawn buggies or mounted men. Jackets instead of cloaks and skirts so short that they wouldn't even have been seen on the most slatternly tavern wench. Electric lights to keep the darkness at bay. He stares in awe at everything that he has taken for granted for twenty eight years – twenty eight years! – until his steps lead him to his own front verandah.

He leans heavily on his cane as he mounts the stairs.

When he opens the door he is assailed once again by the dual memories. The stained glass reflects a muted kaleidoscope of moonlight on the floor, and the hall light shimmers on the small oak table where he places his keys at the end of every day. But there should be high ceilings, stone walls, fearsome creatures stuffed and mounted to unsettle the unwary. The door clicks shut quietly behind him when he expects the thick clunk of wooden doors and iron latches. 

He blinks and makes his way into the sitting room, pauses there to stand still in the hush. Sofa and cabinet and endless bric-a-brac are folded into the tiny room, yet in his mind's eye the chamber stretches out and out. A table that could seat a regiment but held only one, tapestries that warm the walls, the spoils of a dozen deals fondly displayed in flickering firelight from the hearth. His spinning wheel. A basket of straw.

He turns slowly in place, his mind still racing to keep up with the truth of this altered reality. He realizes he is subconsciously holding his breath.

There is only silence, when there should be—

Rumplestiltskin rocks back on his heels, staggers and nearly falls under the crushing weight of the memories.

His cane tapping against the hardwood is the only sound as he lurches to the china cabinet. The door slams against the wall; a plate crashes to the floor unheeded; delicate crystal goblets sway and nearly topple as he pushes them frantically aside. His breath gusts out shakily when he sees it, and he has to take another steadying breath before he is willing to risk letting his quivering hand pluck it from the shelf.

The cane drops unnoticed as he lowers himself to the floor, his hand cradling the cup protectively. 

He blinks away the tears in his eyes, swipes his thumb over the tiny chip on the rim. How many times had he looked at it through the years, considered tossing it in the trash bin as damaged goods? Yet something had always stopped him – the whistle of the tea kettle or a sudden need to record something in his ledger; a rattle in the backyard that required immediate investigation. His heart had known what the cup meant to him even if his mind did not.

His lips shape her name though he dare not say it aloud. To speak it would be to risk the dam bursting. 

He sits until his weathered heart has stopped trying to escape his chest; until the breaths he draws are not rasping from between quivering lips. He sits under the cold from the floor begins to seep into his bones. Then Rumplestiltskin levers himself carefully to his feet.

Only then does he allow himself to truly think of her – the bounce of her curls, her bright and curious eyes, the touch of her fingers on his sleeve. Her endlessly inquisitive nature that had both pleased and vexed him in equal measure. The sound of her voice when she hummed to herself as she ran a dust cloth aimlessly over his things – or even when she lambasted him for not behaving as she believed he ought. They had been together for what felt like a span of mere moments in his long life. A heartbeat. A single twirl on the dance floor. And the pain of her loss had only been rivalled once, on a night when he released his grip and lost his world. 

One year with the love of his life. He does not regret a single moment.

The dining room table in this too-small house could seat six, though he knows he has never broken bread with a single Storybrooke resident. Now, Rumplestiltskin pushes aside the priceless crystal bowl at its centre; straightens the lace doily before he places the chipped cup reverently in its place. He stands back and makes a minute adjustment before he is fully satisfied.

The wooden chair scrapes along the floorboards as he takes a seat. He folds his hands and stares at the delicate china, his breathing even, his eyes clear. Then he forcefully pushes asides thoughts of porcelain skin and bright blue eyes, the swirl of a skirt around shapely calves. And he begins to plan. 

The Saviour is here. He must put forth all his efforts to find his son. 

But he will always remember her.


End file.
